


Op. 35

by Mazarin221b



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Kink Meme, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-06
Updated: 2011-04-06
Packaged: 2017-10-17 16:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock Holmes holding a violin, swaying gracefully with every push and drop of his bow, is the one image John knows he’ll hold close and remember some distant day when the dark begins to close in." Just a quick, unbeta'd fill for the kinkmeme: Sherlock stroking John's face or body with his violin bow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Op. 35

Sherlock Holmes holding a violin, swaying gracefully with every push and drop of his bow, is the one image John knows he’ll hold close and remember some distant day when the dark begins to close in.

Sherlock is playing with abandon tonight, jacket off, snow white shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. The windows are open and the breeze billows the curtains around him, the beginning of sunset painting the room with an orange glow. The scene is so surreal John is entranced, can do nothing but watch and feel himself grow warm. Sherlock finishes the piece - a slow, sultry slide of music that makes John squirm -and drops the bow, chest heaving. He looks to John, flashes a quicksilver smile and John knows he’s undone, wants to be undone more than anything.

“Come here, you gorgeous creature, and let me touch you.”

Sherlock saunters toward him, dropping his violin on the chair and standing in front of John, almost between his knees. He raises his bow and slips it into the notch of John’s collar, letting the smooth horsehair slide across John’s neck. John closes his eyes and sighs, tilting his head to the side, feeling the caress as if Sherlock himself were stroking him. The bow is warm, and smells of rosin, and when John tilts his face to kiss it, he hears a gasp.

The bow is withdrawn and Sherlock climbs onto the sofa to straddle John’s lap, bending low to brush his lips over John’s, lightly kissing John’s lower lip. John tilts into the kiss then withdraws, tucking his face into Sherlock’s neck, breathing in varnish and rosin and sweat - the ghost of Sherlock’s other lover. He isn’t jealous; how could he be, when playing makes Sherlock warm and open and pliant? He presses kiss after kiss to the space between neck and shoulder and Sherlock shudders, dropping his long arms over John’s shoulders and pressing him close.  John nuzzles contentedly into Sherlock’s open collar and flexes his fingers over that firm arse, pulling Sherlock’s body into his as tightly as he can, shifting his hips and groaning at the contact. John never tires of Sherlock draping himself over his body like this; folding that long frame into a space perfect for John to occupy.

It would be so easy, John muses, to open Sherlock’s trousers right here, take him in hand and finish him off, watching Sherlock come apart under his caress and feeling that lithe body quake. They’ve done that dozens of times, but tonight John’s aching for a taste of him, the smell of his body intoxicating even with clothes on.

“Up,” John says, patting Sherlock’s thighs.

Sherlock stands a little unsteadily and John leans forward, slipping Sherlock’s belt through the buckle, unbuttoning and pulling down the zip of his trousers.  Sherlock is working on the buttons of his shirt, and as John pushes down trousers and pants, Sherlock drops his shirt behind him in a puddle on the floor. Sherlock’s gorgeously erect, full and hard, and John helps him kick his trousers free and guides him back to straddle John’s thighs on the sofa.  The difference in stature isn’t as terrible this way, and when Sherlock spreads his thighs wide, he’s at the perfect height for John to reach forward and softly press his lips over the soft head of Sherlock’s cock.

Sherlock cries out at the contact, swearing softly. This is John’s favorite part - that first touch, the first bright spark of pleasure at contact at once familiar and new, every time.  He’s more than ready, himself, but keeps his focus on Sherlock, pulling his cock deeper, gently scraping with his teeth in a way that he knows will make Sherlock hiss and gasp and tangle fingers in John’s hair. John’s hand is wrapped around Sherlock’s slim thigh, his other hand slipping under Sherlock’s balls to stroke his perineum, setting a rhythm with teeth and tongue and hands that has Sherlock rocking into his mouth and whispering nonsensical phrases into his ear.  “John,” and “please,” and “fuck” and “want” all feature in equal measure. John keeps sucking, working Sherlock into a quivering wreck on his lap, drawing out his pleasure to a fever pitch until John himself can’t stand it anymore, fumbling open his own trousers and taking himself in hand to stroke in time with Sherlock’s thrusts.

Sherlock falters first, his hips stuttering and pushing deeper into John’s mouth, a choked cry signaling the release that floods John’s mouth and sends John over the edge himself with a grunt as he swallows down everything Sherlock gives him.

John releases Sherlock’s cock with a soft sound and Sherlock sinks to sit on John’s lap, trailing his fingers over the wet patch on his abdomen then curling as low as he can to lean against John’s chest, his chin on John’s shoulder. John’s arms wrap around him, feeling the warm skin of Sherlock’s back under his palms as he strokes softly. 

“I will never get over how perfect you feel when you come,” John says, into the curls over Sherlock’s ear.

“And I’ll never get over how perfectly you can get me there,” Sherlock says, kissing John’s shoulder.

“Like a finely tuned violin,” John smirks, sliding his hand over Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock’s groan turns to chuckles as they sit entangled, watching the sun slide below the rooftops.


End file.
